


if someone moves in 'round the corner

by mayerwien



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Elementary School, Alternate Universe - Middle School, Best Friends, Friendship, Gen, but also possibly precursor to romance you deciiiiiide (jazz hands), glee club hell, kind of?????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 07:29:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9374489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayerwien/pseuds/mayerwien
Summary: This is the first time they’ve ever really talked; Phichit’s only been here a month, but he got popular fast, and he somehow eats lunch with a different group every week—the mathletes, the soccer team, the drama club. Yuuri, meanwhile, sits in the back of the classroom and tends to keep to himself.It’s also at this moment—their desks pushed together like they’re in their own little bubble, Phichit’s smiling face inching closer to Yuuri’s, his dark eyes sparkling—that Yuuri becomes aware that the new kid makes him kind of nervous.“So, my house on Saturday?” Phichit asks, and Yuuri can only nod.(or, How Phichit and Yuuri Became Best Friends, Middle School Edition.)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [strikinglight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/strikinglight/gifts).



> My friends and I have a YOI trash group chat, and for Christmas we decided to do a giftfic exchange! This one’s for Meg, Queen of Detroit—I don’t know where your boys are in this (do we ever know what country we’re in when we make an AU HAHAHA) but they are literally eleven years old, sorry this is so late I hope you like it!!!! (also, this is potentially a prequel to GLEE CLUB HELL so uhhhHHHH do with that what you will i guess????)
> 
> Title from “What It Means To Be A Friend” from _13: The Musical,_ which is a sad song wahuhu but the quote fits out of context! (also, while we’re still on this note, “The Lamest Place In The World” is Otayuri af)

When Yuuri gets partnered with the new transfer student, Phichit, for their science project, Phichit doesn’t hesitate to invite Yuuri over to his house to work on it. They have to make a poster showing the parts of a plant cell and present it to the class—so they agree that Phichit will buy the poster board, and Yuuri will bring his paint set and brushes from home. “No glitter, though,” Yuuri warns, while they’re having their brainstorming session in class. “Miss Minako had to ban glitter after Michele _almost_ got a speck in his eye, and his mom threatened to sue the school.”

Phichit grins. “This is way more exciting than my old school already,” he says, leaning the entire upper half of his body over the desk towards Yuuri. This is the first time they’ve ever really talked; Phichit’s only been here a month, but he got popular fast, and he somehow eats lunch with a different group every week—the mathletes, the soccer team, the drama club. Yuuri, meanwhile, sits in the back of the classroom and tends to keep to himself. (He still eats with Yuko and Takeshi most of the time; but the two of them are in the other class this year, and also they’re kind of dating, both of which make it a little weird.)

It’s also at this moment—their desks pushed together like they’re in their own little bubble, Phichit’s smiling face inching closer to Yuuri’s, his dark eyes sparkling—that Yuuri becomes aware that the new kid makes him kind of nervous.

“So, my house on Saturday?” Phichit asks, and Yuuri can only nod.

On Saturday morning, Yuuri takes the bus to the mall, which is halfway between his house and Phichit’s, and Phichit meets him at the stop there so they can ride the bus back to his house together. The weather is starting to turn pleasantly cool, so both boys are wearing their windbreakers, which they slip out of as they board the scuffed steps. Even though the bus is almost empty, Phichit chooses to stand in the aisle, so Yuuri stands with him, steadying himself by holding the bar with both hands while Phichit swings carelessly from it with one.

“Did you ever see _Rent?”_ Phichit asks, as the bus rolls over a pothole and everything lurches momentarily.

Yuuri blinks. “What’s that?”

“It’s about these friends who live in New York but it’s like, the nineties I think, and they’re all musicians and activists and stuff.” Phichit swivels his baseball cap around on his head, so the brim is facing backwards. “There’s this one part where they’re on the train, and they start singing and dancing like—“ Propelling himself forward, he catches hold of the next pole over, dipping himself towards the aisle. _“Whoa-ohh-ohh-whoaaaa—“_

“Phichit!” the bus driver yells over her shoulder. “How many times do I have to tell you, no reenacting Broadway musicals while the bus is moving?”

Phichit stops singing and plops into the nearest seat instantly, his hands folded in his lap. “Sorry, ma’am,” he calls back, turning his head to wink at Yuuri.

So, the new kid _definitely_ makes Yuuri nervous—but he also makes him laugh.

Phichit’s house is on the quiet side of town, one of the ones that were built in the fifties and still all look the same. Before anything else, Phichit takes Yuuri to the garage to meet his mom. It’s her art studio, he explains; when they come in, she’s standing in the middle of the floor with a Sharpie stuck into her ponytail and her arms crossed, frowning at a giant canvas propped up on an easel. From what Yuuri can tell, it’s either a painting of a horse, or a man with no head but with extra legs coming out of his shoulders.

“There’s ice cream in the freezer,” she says, after Phichit introduces Yuuri and she shakes his hand firmly, leaving bright purple smudges on his palm. “And Cam, if you’re going to work in your room, don’t forget to keep the door open.”

“Okay.” Phichit turns to grin at Yuuri. “She thinks if we close the door, we’ll start making out,” he explains.

 _“Phichit,”_ his mom says, while Yuuri tries not to blush and fails miserably.

“What? That’s the reason, isn’t it?”

“Well, _no,_ I’m setting precedent for when you’re old enough to actually _be_ making out with someone. Which is when you’re thirty-five, by the way.” Phichit’s mom pulls the brim of his baseball cap around and down over his eyes, then looks straight at Yuuri. Her quick smile is just as mischievous as Phichit’s, which startles him. “Make yourself at home, Yuuri,” she says kindly.

Normally, whenever Yuuri goes to someone else’s house, and their parents tell him to “make himself at home,” he immediately feels very not-at-home. Going to other people’s houses makes him uncomfortable, period, mostly because he’s good at reading signs. Dustless shelves and shiny, bare countertops make a house look barely lived in, tell Yuuri that they’ve cleaned up excessively to make a good impression. Underneath cursory questions about school and wide, unpracticed smiles, he can sense family arguments being held back. Yuuri hates feeling like he’s interrupted people’s normal lives, like he’s an inconvenience to them, and he always winds up feeling like it would have been better if he hadn’t gone at all.

Phichit’s house is different, though. There are weird vintage posters and shelves covered with random knick-knacks everywhere, and big cardboard boxes from the moving company are still in every corner, flaps folded back to expose frying pans and stacks of books and lamps shaped like elephants. It’s an interesting mess, a comfortable mess, and Yuuri loves it instantly.

“Sorry, everything’s still kind of—“ Phichit makes an exploding noise, wiggling his fingers. “Mom always says it takes us at least a year to really move into a new place.”

“No, it’s great,” Yuuri says in a rush. Phichit beams at him over his shoulder, and it gives Yuuri a small burst of courage, enough to ask a question. “Did…your mom call you something else awhile ago?”

“Huh? Oh, Cam is my nickname.” Phichit nudges a box of VHS tapes and DVDs aside with his hip so Yuuri can pass. “Mom says in Thailand, babies get a nickname that’s totally different from their real name, to confuse the evil spirits so they don’t kidnap us.”

“Wow. What does Cam mean?”

“Guess,” Phichit says. Yuuri shakes his head, and Phichit laughs. “You’ll figure it out eventually,” he assures him.

Phichit takes Yuuri through the kitchen, which has butter-yellow walls and smells like fresh basil, and down the hall to the staircase. There are framed photographs all over the wall going up to the second floor, in chronological order—there’s Phichit’s mom, younger with her hair cropped short, feeding baby Phichit in his high chair; Phichit maybe four or five years old, he and his mom so bundled up they look like snowmen, holding mittened hands and standing on a bridge over an icy river. Phichit in a go-kart, smiling from inside his helmet and shooting the camera a thumbs-up; Phichit in the middle of a group of other kids in school uniforms, his arm slung around a blond boy’s shoulders as he laughs; Phichit with his own camera, taking a picture of whoever’s taking a picture of him. Some of the earlier frames are decorated with buttons and seashells, exposed dots of dried glue showing where several have fallen off over the years.

“What’s up?” Phichit’s already on the second-floor landing, peering over the banister at Yuuri.

“I’m watching you age,” Yuuri says, taking the staircase a step at a time so he can more closely study each photo.

“Oh.” Phichit backtracks to stand on the step beside Yuuri. “Mom took most of those. She’s a photographer, too.”

“Looks like you’ve lived in a lot of places,” Yuuri says—a little in awe, a little jealous that Phichit’s already been to so many countries, seen and done things he probably can’t even imagine.

“Thailand till I was three, then we moved to Belgium. Hong Kong for six months, just while Mom was doing this gallery thing. Then Saudi, I went to this big international school there. Then here.”

“Is…it hard? Moving so much?”

Phichit tilts his head. “Not really? I mean, I get that it’s kinda unusual. I miss my friends sometimes, but we always chat and Skype, so it’s not so bad.” He reaches out and taps the frame with the group photo, smiling. “And it just means I have friends all over the world.”

Yuuri climbs the next step, then pauses. In the photograph he’s looking at, Phichit is sitting cross-legged in an armchair, head bent over the two newborn babies he’s holding in his lap. “Are—do you have—“

 _“Caaaaam!”_ a small voice shrieks from the top of the stairs just then, and Phichit whirls instantly, flinging his arms out in a practiced motion to catch the small girl who leaps off the landing, down at least five steps.

Holding the flailing girl underneath her armpits and turning her around, Phichit deposits her on the step facing Yuuri. She has Phichit’s round face and dark, intense eyes; she’s wearing a tank top and pink play shorts, and her hair is pulled back in a sloppy braid. “Isra, this is my friend Yuuri,” Phichit tells her. “Say hi.”

“H’lo.” Isra scrunches her face cheerily up at him, then turns back to Phichit. “Chati took my Batman and now he’s playing with it and he keeps saying it’s his but it’s not it’s _mine,”_ she complains all in one breath, stamping her foot.

“Hey, hey.” Phichit frowns. “Did you check the bottom of Batman’s foot? We wrote your initials on both of them, remember?”

“Oh!” Just like that, Isra is thumping back up the stairs and speeding down the hall, yelling “Chati, his foot! If there’s a flagpole on it, it’s mine!”

Sheepishly, Phichit rubs his neck and leans back against the banister. “Sorry about that,” he says. “The twins are four, and they’re crazy. ‘Specially Isra.”

“No, I mean—I wish I had younger siblings,” Yuuri answers honestly, rocking back on his heels a little. “I just have one older sister, and she’s in high school now, so…we don’t really get to hang out anymore.”

“Aw, yeah, that kind of sucks. I guess at least I get to hang out with the twins a lot, if you count having space tea parties as hanging out.” Phichit laughs. It’s also only now that Yuuri realizes something—and when he does, his heart does a hopeful kind of sideways lurch. Did Phichit just call him his friend?

Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut for a second. _No,_ he tells himself. _He didn’t mean it like that._

“Oh, hey.” Phichit reaches out and taps the back of Yuuri’s hand. “Now do you know what Cam is short for?”

Yuuri blinks, confused.

Phichit laughs. _“Camera,”_ he says, closing his fingers gently around Yuuri’s wrist and leading him up the last few steps.

 

“Is it okay if I play music?” is the first thing Phichit says when they finally get to his room (leaving the door open, to _set precedent)._ There’s a skylight, and the ceiling is slanted down towards the wall his bed is up against; the bed is covered in a blue plaid duvet and about a million stuffed animals, monkeys and beavers and snakes. While Yuuri stands cautiously in the middle of the floor, looking around, Phichit goes over to his desk, cracks open a scuffed CD case, and feeds the disc into the stereo. Sprightly piano music pours out of the speakers, and Phichit hums along with the main melody line as he jumps up to grab the poster board off his top shelf.

Something moves in the giant plastic box on the floor beside Phichit’s bed, and Yuuri just manages to stop himself from gasping in surprise. Squinting, he can make out a bed of wood shavings and a wheel, and a couple of small, round shapes tottering around inside. “Are those hamsters?”

“Yep. They were a goodbye present from my friends in Saudi.” Phichit dips his hand into the top of the box and lifts one hamster out, a little gray-and-white ball of fluff. It wriggles in his hand before hunching down, twitching its pink nose at Yuuri. “This is Bundarik. The one in the corner is Khemkhaeng. And the chubby one who sleeps a lot is Thongyip.” He holds the hamster out to Yuuri. “Wanna hold her?”

Cupping his hands, Yuuri lets Bundarik nestle into them, biting his tongue so he won’t giggle at the way she tickles his palms. A giggle escapes him anyway when the hamster puts her paws up on his thumb, clearly eager to get back to Phichit. “They’re cute,” he says, tipping his hands to allow Bundarik to fall back into Phichit’s with a gentle plop.

“Yeah. They’re super smart, too, like I had them in a regular cage before, but Khemkhaeng figured out how to open the door, so we had to put them in here. Also, Bundarik can skateboard. Well, kind of. She stands on the mini skateboard and lets me push her.” Phichit tucks Bundarik into his shirt pocket, then puts his hands on his hips. “Hey, Yuuri, this poster’s gonna be huge, so…I guess we should work on the floor?”

They proceed to do just that, moving the computer chair and beanbag aside so they have enough floor space. Phichit opens up his science textbook so they can copy the illustration, sketching in each individual ribosome while Yuuri carefully pencils in the neat, maze-like curves of the endoplasmic reticulum. The whole time, Yuuri’s conscious of his arms and elbows, making sure to keep them tucked in as close as he can so he doesn’t accidentally bump Phichit’s hand.

The whole cell gets painted with a light wash of green first; then they label and color in each distinct part with brighter shades. (At some point, Bundarik, who’s been crawling all over Phichit’s head, gets into the paint and scuttles across the poster board—leaving little green hamster footprints that Phichit apologizes for, but assures Yuuri won’t be visible from the back of the classroom.) The poster doesn’t take them more than an hour and a half, and Phichit’s CD is just starting to replay from track one when they stand up and step back, frowning down at their work. It’s an _accurate_ diagram, sure, but…

Yuuri touches the tip of his paintbrush handle to the corner of his mouth. “It needs something—“

“More. Yeah.” Phichit and Yuuri look at each other, perplexed.

“I think we need a break,” Phichit declares, kissing Bundarik on the top of her head before releasing her into the box again. “To recharge our brains. And eat ice cream.”

Quietly, they troop back down to the kitchen and sit across from each other at the table, eating their ice cream sandwiches while making as little noise as possible (“So the twins don’t find out,” Phichit whispers). While he thinks of something interesting to say, Yuuri glances towards the living room. The furniture in there is still all pushed together in the center, except for two armchairs side by side, which have been turned to face the large window, and the upright piano along the opposite wall. The piano piques his interest right away; Yuuri wonders if Phichit plays. There’s a thick, expensive-looking book of sheet music on the rack, but propped up in front of it is a much thinner book, with a giant number one and a picture of children holding hands on the front.

The music from earlier is still stuck in his head, in his chest, and Yuuri can feel his hands aching to try it out—but he knows it probably wouldn’t be polite to ask to play someone’s piano when he should be talking to them instead. Apparently, Phichit notices him looking anyway, because suddenly he asks, “Oh, you wanna play?”

Hopping off his chair without hesitation and cramming the last of his ice cream into his mouth, Phichit crosses to the piano and lifts the fallboard—which makes Yuuri a little embarrassed, that Phichit was watching him that closely. But he has no choice now, so he follows—settling onto the creaky bench, swallowing the nervous lump in his throat, as Phichit hovers off to the side with his hands clasped behind his back.

There’s always that slight moment of apprehension, right before Yuuri tries out a strange piano for the first time. You never know if you’re about to press down only to hear that the key is buzzy and out of tune—or worse, sticky and mute, making no noise except a dull thunk.

Yuuri lifts his right index finger above middle C and brings it down. The note rings out clear.

Taking a deep breath, Yuuri sits up straighter and positions both his hands on the keys, his wrists high. He starts strong with one of his favorite pieces, “Linus and Lucy” by Vince Guaraldi. The syncopation on this is tricky; Yuuri spent many afternoons sitting in front of the piano with his fists clenched, angry at himself for not being able to get it right, trying to calm down enough to try again. But he’s got it now; he can play it with his eyes closed.

The familiar music echoes off the walls of the living room, and Yuuri taps his foot along with the rhythm, smiling. Eventually he stops sticking to the song and freestyles a little, dabbling around in C major for a while, feeling it out, before transitioning into the song Phichit was playing on his stereo. It’s 4/4 time, all bright and bouncy chords, sounding just like an unexpected sunny day in winter. Yuuri’s fingers slip once or twice, and he winces, but he doesn’t let it stop him—just keeps playing the music as best as he can remember it. He ends with a series of waterfall chords, every note tripping over the next to create a wave of sound, before striking the final chords and letting the song fade out. Yuuri exhales.

“You have a nice piano,” Yuuri says approvingly, turning to Phichit—then he stops. Phichit is holding onto the piano sidearm, staring at Yuuri like he’s just pulled a rabbit out of a hat, set the rabbit on fire, turned it into a dove and made it fly away. No one’s ever looked at him like that before.

Yuuri drops his gaze to his lap. _Did he think I was showing off?_ “Um…my mom says that when I was a little kid and we went to the mall in town, I used to stand right beside the guy who plays the piano by the fountain and just listen to him,” he murmurs, feeling the need to explain. “My dad says they’d always just leave me with the piano guy so they could do their shopping in peace, because they knew when they came back I’d still be there. I _think_ he’s joking, but…” He shrugs, rubbing his palms on his pant legs and smiling hesitantly. “When I went to kindergarten, I started taking lessons, and, well…I never stopped.”

“But Yuuri, you’re—you’re _amazing,”_ Phichit says fervently. “You’re like, a prodigy! You should be playing in Carnegie Hall or something!”

“I’m…I’m really not that—“ He’s interrupted, however, by a small scuffling noise from the hall; Yuuri turns to see two small faces peering around the doorway, two pairs of round eyes watching him.

“Hi,” the boy—Chati—says shyly. “You’re really good.”

“Can you teach me how to play like that?” Isra asks, sticking her hand in the air and wiggling her fingers.

“Well, guys, if you practice your scales every day like Mom tells you to, maybe one day you’ll be as good as Yuuri,” Phichit says in a big-brotherly tone.

“But scales are _boring,”_ Chati pipes, while Isra flounces over and seats herself on the bench right beside Yuuri.

“Do you play, too?” Yuuri asks Phichit over Isra’s head.

Phichit shakes his head. “Nah, just Mom and the twins. I taught myself how to play the guitar from YouTube, but I’m not that great.”

 _“I_ can already play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,” Isra announces, demonstrating with one hand. The drill is familiar to Yuuri—one one, four four, five five, four. Smiling, Yuuri lifts his left hand and softly starts playing the accompaniment, watching as delight spreads across Isra’s features.

“Hey,” Phichit says slowly, and Yuuri looks up. Already, he can recognize Phichit’s Bright Idea face. “What if,” he says, grinning, “for our presentation…we made a _song?”_

And that’s how they wind up spending the rest of the morning side by side on the piano bench. While the twins play an elaborate game of Batman versus Barbie on the floor, Yuuri and Phichit pen the lyrics to _“Sixth Grade Is Like A Prison And That’s Why We’re Experts On The Parts Of The Cell.”_ “Like Fall Out Boy, but educational,” Phichit says confidently. He’s brought out his guitar and is scribbling the lyrics in the back of his science notebook, while Yuuri composes the main melody on the piano.

“What rhymes with ‘chromoplast’?” Phichit asks, tapping his ballpen against his chin.

Yuuri thinks. “’Having a blast’?”

“Nice!” Phichit high-fives him, laughing. The sting on Yuuri’s palm feels like a victory.

“Can—“ Yuuri is almost laughing too hard to speak now. “Can the bridge just be ‘the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell’ over and over?” They both crack up, Phichit sliding off the piano bench and onto the floor, holding his stomach with one hand and the neck of his guitar with the other.

It occurs to Yuuri, just now, that he doesn’t want this to end. But he knows that after the project’s over, the two of them will have nothing to talk about—nothing in common again, no reason to laugh or eat ice cream or make music together. Phichit will go back to playing basketball with the seventh-graders at recess, and Yuuri will go back to eating with Yuko and Takeshi, trying not to mind when they hold hands. There’s no point in hoping for anything else, Yuuri tells himself firmly. Phichit has friends all over the world. _He doesn’t even know me._

Suddenly, Phichit whips his head up to look at something behind Yuuri. _“Mommm,”_ he groans good-naturedly. Yuuri turns to see Phichit’s mom hiding just around the doorjamb this time, holding a camera up to her face.

She flaps her hand at them, continuing to click away. “Pretend I’m not here, pretend I’m not here! The light is beautiful this time of day.”

Phichit rolls his eyes at Yuuri. “She’s always like this,” he whispers, clambering back onto the bench, guitar in his lap. “Hey, Mom, while you’re here, wanna hear our song?”

They play it for her start to finish, Yuuri singing quietly, Phichit singing loud enough to wake the neighbors. Phichit’s mom takes photos the whole time, and when they’re done, she snaps her fingers.

“You two are good partners,” she says, smiling and lowering her camera. “Like John Lennon and Paul McCartney.”

“Rodgers and Hammerstein.” Phichit smiles at Yuuri, and Yuuri knows he shouldn’t, but—he feels special, just for a second.

“Stay for lunch, Yuuri,” Phichit’s mom says over her shoulder, as she goes into the kitchen and the twins trail after her, fists in her shirt hem as they ask if they can have ice cream for dessert later. “I can drive you home, it’s not a problem.”

Yuuri starts to say it’s okay, he doesn’t want to be any trouble, but then Phichit nudges Yuuri’s arm gently with his elbow. Phichit has nothing but sunshine inside of him, Yuuri thinks, looking at him—and it can’t help but shine out in everything he does, even the smallest of gestures.

“Hey, I was thinking. Do you...wanna come over again sometime?” Phichit asks, then clears his throat. He ducks his head, cheeks flushing. “Not for school, I mean, just—to hang out. There’s a park near here that rents out bikes, and a frozen yogurt stand, and sometimes the dog walkers let us play with their dogs.” Waving his hands suddenly, he hurries to add, “But if you’re busy, or you don’t want to, it’s okay, I just—”

“No! I mean— _yes,”_ Yuuri says quickly. His heart is pounding, and he thinks if he smiles any wider, his face will crack in two. “Maybe sometime…you could come to my house, too?”

“Yeah?” Phichit smiles back, his shoulders relaxing as he breathes out slowly. “That’d be cool.”

The noon sun is streaming through the living room window, lighting up the room, casting squares of gold onto their faces. The two of them keep smiling at each other, not saying anything else for a while, until Phichit breaks the silence by reaching forward and plinking _shave and a haircut_ out on the piano. “Only thing I know how to play,” he says guiltily.

Yuuri laughs, reaching out too, his hand crossing over Phichit’s. _Two bits,_ he answers. “It’s okay,” Yuuri tells him. “I’ll teach you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Of course the album Phichit was playing on the stereo was the King and the Skater OST, what other soundtrack would he do his homework to (also please consider how well “Linus and Lucy” would hypothetically transition into “Shall We Skate,” I mean)
> 
> The twins, Isra and Chati, are Meg's delightful creations! You can find them in any of her Phichuuri fics, which I promise you will make you smell the air in Detroit. 
> 
> also, we have decided that the hamsters are named after three of the obscure royal children from The King and the Skater; ‘Thongyip’ is a girl’s name that is also a kind of pudding and I thought it was adorable


End file.
